Izzy As Is

by Tracie Banister

  More hugs and kisses are exchanged, and as I feared, a veritable river of tears is shed by Pilar.

  Opening the front door and sweeping a hand outside, I snark, “We can’t miss you if you don’t leave.”

  The departing couple only gets as far as the top step of the porch before Pilar swings around to take one last look at her precious offspring.

  “Byyyeeee! Have fun!” I wave at her, and the children follow suit. “Tell Chris I hope he has a great wedding weekend, and it doesn’t zip by too fast.”

  Ford’s face contorts in confusion, and he opens his mouth, probably to ask me about my unusual choice of words, but Pilar grabs him by the arm and says, “Let’s go.” As they move away, she tosses a recriminatory look over her shoulder at me.

  Ha! I knew that me alluding to a certain salacious incident from the past would get rid of her. Pilar would sooner do a naked pregnant photo shoot than let Ford find out that his younger brother and I almost boned at their wedding. Well, technically before their wedding. In a confessional booth at the church. Seemed like a good spot. If we’d been able to go through with it (the zipper on his pants got stuck, so that put the kibosh on things), I could have committed a sin and confessed to it right in the same place.

  Okay, don’t judge me. It wasn’t my finest moment, but Chris is hot and I was feeling a little sad and a lot horny because I’d just moved out of Alex’s place. (He was this cop I dated then shacked up with for a few months. Alex did not take it well when I dumped him, but I was only twenty-three and not ready to make a lifetime commitment.) Not being able to close the deal with Chris was disappointing, as well as frustrating. I got my bridesmaid’s dress all wrinkled for nothing! Plus, I had a crick in my neck the rest of the night—getting busy in a cramped space always seems like a fun idea, but it rarely pans out unless you’re a contortionist. When Pilar returned from her honeymoon and I told her about my near-miss with her brother-in-law, she was shocked and horrified (no surprise—she is a bit of a prude) and she made me vow never to tell another living soul. She, also, claimed that Chris’s zipper malfunction had to have been Divine Intervention. Right. Like God doesn’t have better things to do than thwart my sexcapades. If he really had been keeping an eye on things in that church, I think he would have just struck me down with a lightning bolt and been done with it.

  I close the door and pivot to face Nate and Gabi, who are staring at me expectantly. Clapping my hands together, I search for something adult-like to say and come up with, “Okay, kids, why don’t you go put on your PJs and brush your teeth?”

  Gabi giggles. “You’re funny, tía.”

  I am?

  “It’s still light out. We haven’t even had dinner yet,” Nate explains why my niece thinks I’m so hilarious.

  I purse my lips with disbelief. “Are you sure? I thought kids ate early, like old people.”

  “Nope. Dinner’s at six. It’s on Mom’s schedule.”

  I should probably read that . . . at some point this weekend . . . when I have nothing better to do.

  “All right then. Let’s go raid the fridge!” I issue the rallying cry, and the kids make a beeline for the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Izzy. Izzy. Izzy.”

  Did I get a parrot? If not, then who (or what) is squawking my name? Maybe it’s the alarm on my phone, although I thought I had it set on a basic chime.

  “Izzy. Izzy. Izzy.”

  God, this is getting annoying.

  I pull my hand out from under the pillow it’s sandwiched beneath and fling my arm out to the side, groping blindly around the nightstand, looking for the beauty sleep-destroying device.

  “Izzy. You have to get up.” Suddenly, the room is flooded with light that’s way too bright even with my eyelids closed.

  “Noooooo,” I groan in protest and bury my head under the pillow, just wanting to return to my softly lit dream world where I was sipping champagne on the deck of a swanky yacht that was taking me on an evening cruise around Biscayne Bay.

  “Izzy, you’ve got to drive Gabi and me to school.”

  School?

  Oh crap, that’s right. I’m at Pilar’s house and I’m supposed to be doing all the mom stuff she normally would, which includes ferrying her kids to their different learning institutions.

  “What time is it?” I croak as I toss aside the pillow and sit up, rubbing my bleary eyes.

  “6:15. My first class starts at seven, and it’s a twenty minute drive.”

  I blink at my nephew, who stands before me in a crisp uniform consisting of a white button-down, khakis, and a dark green blazer with his school’s insignia on the breast pocket. His face is clean, his hair is neatly brushed, and he smells like Irish Spring, all of which is quite a feat considering most boys his age don’t understand the meaning of the words “good personal hygiene.” Ana’s two oldest are infamous for wearing the same clothes several days in a row, then dousing themselves in Axe body spray to mask the B.O.

  “Okay, okay. Just let me throw on some shorts.” I grab the pair I tossed on the floor before climbing into bed last night. I slept in my oversized Straight Outta Miami T-shirt, which is perfectly respectable to leave the house in, although the fact that I’m not wearing a bra under the tee is the opposite of respectable and I don’t want to cause a scandal at Nate’s snooty private school.

  “Turn around,” I tell him, doing a finger twirl in the air. When he does, I snatch the lacy turquoise number draped over the back of a nearby chair and put it on without removing my shirt, then slide my feet into my favorite pair of wedge sandals. “All right. Let’s hit it,” I say, then exit the bedroom with Nate trailing behind.

  “Woah!” I stop short halfway down the corridor when I almost collide with my niece who seemed to pop up out of nowhere.

  “I dressed myself!” she announces proudly.

  “I can see that,” I say as I try to absorb the full, cornea-searing magnitude of the many mismatched and clashing elements that make up her ensemble. On her head, she’s got a Trolls baseball hat that’s topped with a hot pink pom-pom. On her body, a shirt that’s lime green with three quarter-length sleeves in a blue floral pattern and a yellow ruffled skirt with big white polka dots. Her calves are encased in multi-colored striped socks, and one foot is clad in a silver ballet flat while the other’s in a red Converse low top. Putting my hand in front of my mouth, I stage whisper to Nate, “Is she color blind?”

  “You’d think so, but no,” he replies in a normal tone of voice.

  “I guess it works for Betsey Johnson,” I retort, with a shrug. “Will you tie her shoe while I hunt down the remote for your mother’s car?”

  Nate kneels down on the hardwood floor to fulfill my request, and I start bounding down the stairs. “Oh, and don’t forget your backpacks, phones, and whatever else you usually take with you to school.” I yell back over my shoulder. I am killing this whole substitute parent thing!

  Okay, so the keyless entry remote for Pilar’s Volvo SUV is not hanging on the palm tree key hook mounted on the wall by the back door in the kitchen, which is where I found it last night when I wanted to run out and get some chips and salsa. (Hey, it’s not just pregnant ladies who have cravings!) So, where did I put the remote when the kids and I returned from our outing to Publix?

  I check the table in the breakfast nook and search all the granite countertops, but have no luck. Deciding to retrace my steps, I pretend that I’m walking into the kitchen with a grocery bag in hand. I remember I was thirsty, so I headed for the fridge to get a coconut water. Bingo! The remote is on the top shelf right next to the carton of Vita Coco. Hopefully, being subjected to a cold temperature didn’t hurt the device. I’m rubbing it between my palms to warm it up when Gabi skips into the room and declares, “I’m hungry!”

  Oh, right. I’m supposed to feed these kids first thing in the morning. For me, breakfast is usually something I pick up, not something I make.

  “I had a bowl of cereal before Gabi got up,”
Nate informs me.

  Good, so I don’t have to worry about him. I just need to find something Gabi can eat in the car. My eyes quickly scan the shelves of the still-open fridge. “How about a yogurt?” I offer my niece a container of Greek yogurt with apricot on the bottom.

  She shrinks back, looking repulsed.

  “Come on. It’s delicious and it’s got two of the food groups a growing child like you needs.” I jiggle the yogurt in front of her, although I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m trying to hypnotize her into thinking that eating this stuff is a good idea.

  “No!” she shrieks, stomping her foot and glowering at me, which is a sure sign there’s a temper tantrum in the offing.

  “All right, all right, don’t get your Hello Kitty panties in a twist.” I return the offensive dairy product to the fridge and shut the door.

  Noticing a bunch of perfectly ripened bananas sitting out on the kitchen island, I tear one off and hold it out to Gabi. “¿Quieres un plátano?” I ask, hoping she’ll be more receptive to a food presented in Spanish.

  She shakes her head so violently from side-to-side she creates a breeze that makes the pom-pom on her hat do a little dance.

  “I’m going to be late for school if we don’t leave right now,” Nate reminds me impatiently.

  “I know. I know. Just give me one more sec.” I jerk open the doors of the pantry and pull out the first box that looks like it contains something breakfast-y.

  Chewy Dipps? Huh, these must be Pilar’s because they’re covered in chocolate, which has become a vice of hers since she got knocked up this time. Underneath all the chocolate is a granola bar, which makes this food nutritional and fit for kid consumption as far as I’m concerned. “Here.” I shove two foil-wrapped bars into Gabi’s hands.

  “Chocolate for breakfast?” she queries, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

  “Yeah, you just won the breakfast lotto. Now, come on, let’s get you and your brother to school.”

  I need Nate’s help to get Gabi strapped into her car seat, which is a more complicated procedure than figuring out my taxes. (I could never keep track of all my different jobs, which ones deducted taxes upfront and which ones treated me as an independent contractor, how many people I paid a commission to, and which of my expenses were write-offs and which weren’t. In the end, I just stopped filing. Why should Uncle Sam get a cut of my hard-earned money anyway?)

  We make good time to Nate’s school, which bears the overlong tag of “Fairchild Academy for Advanced and Creative Learning,” but get stuck in a drop-off line that moves at a snail’s pace. I keep telling Nate to just jump out and hoof the last fifty yards to the school, but he insists that that would be “against the rules” and he can’t exit the SUV until we reach the designated drop-off zone where a teacher will make sure he gets out of the vehicle and onto school property safely. Ugh, he’s such a goody two-shoes! Of course, with Ford and Pilar as his role models, how else was the poor kid going to turn out?

  Finally, we reach the head of the line. I put the car in Park and twist my head around to say goodbye to my nephew. “¡Ay, Dios mío! Did you get any of that chocolate in your mouth?” I wonder when I see the brown substance smeared all over Gabi’s face and clothes; it’s even on the car seat, which I hope is Scotchgarded or Pilar is going to have a fit.

  Gabi nods happily while licking her sticky, chocolate-covered fingers. “It was yummy!”

  “Later,” Nate bids us farewell as he climbs out of the SUV.

  “Bye! Have a good day soaking up all that knowledge.” I cringe reflexively when I say it, remembering how torturous I thought sitting in a classroom all day was. “I’ll see you back here when you get paroled at . . .?”

  “Three,” he supplies the time, which I would have known if I’d read Pilar’s schedule. I really need to put that on my To Do list for today.

  “Three o’clock. Got it.” I give him a thumbs up, and he humors me with a smile.

  Shifting the car into Drive, I say, “Okay, let’s blow this pop stand,” to Gabi and take off.

  “Pop!” she chirps. “That’s what my daddy calls those drinks with the bubbles.”

  “Uh huh,” I reply absentmindedly because I’m trying to figure out the Volvo’s navigation system. “Shooting Stars Preschool, Doral, Florida,” I call out once I get the voice control menu up on the display screen.

  “Oh, man,” I grumble when the screen tells me I’ve got another twenty minute drive ahead of me. Why can’t these kids go to schools that are closer together? What does a four-year-old do in school anyway? Make macaroni necklaces and listen to lectures on sharing? Gabi could skip that for one day, couldn’t she?

  “Hey, Gabs, wanna play a fun game?” One that I’m very good at because I’ve had years of practice.

  “Sure. What’s the game called?”

  “Hooky.”

  * * *

  “Come on, tía. Hurry.” Gabi’s heart-shaped face is flushed with excitement as she tugs me by the hand across a bridge that traverses the waterway separating the two sides of The Falls, which is one of Miami’s premier open-air malls. It’s anchored by Macy’s at one end and Bloomie’s at the other, and in between the two are some of my favorite stores. I’ve learned today that The Falls also boasts some stellar shopping for children. I’ve already had to take two trips back to the SUV to stow all the shopping bags from the stores Gabi and I have hit—Janie & Jack, Gap Kids, Hanna Andersson, Gymboree. Ford’s AmEx has been getting quite a workout!

  Okay, before you chastise me, I know Pilar said I was only supposed to use this gold card for “essentials,” but what could be more essential in a little girl’s life than a stylish wardrobe? And really, everything in Gabi’s closet prior to this shopping spree was way too baby-ish. All those fugly primary colors and silly prints? Gag. Gabi’s almost five; it’s time she graduated to a more sophisticated look (one that does not include cartoon characters). And who better to help her with that than her super chic aunt who works in the fashion industry?

  Gabi’s been really good about schlepping from store to store and trying on all the outfits I picked out for her, but that’s probably because I bribed her with a trip to American Girl when we were done. Now, it’s time to pay the piper, which is why my hyped up niece is dragging me through the doors of this nirvana for little girls. I’ve never been in one of these stores before, so I’m taken aback by the sheer size of it. There are display cases and shelves filled with dolls as far as the eye can see. Following the flow of traffic inside the store, my head swivels from left to right, along with Gabi’s, as we pass a special area for clothing, another one for accessories, a photo studio, a hair salon(!), even a bistro. I must look stupefied because I’m quickly set upon by a salesgirl, denoted as such by her bright pink name tag, which breaks up the monotony of her all-black ensemble.

  “Hi!” she greets us in a way-too-perky voice. “Welcome to American Girl! My name’s Brandee!” She points to her name tag. “And what’s your name, little lady?” she asks my pint-sized companion.

  “Gabriela,” my niece whispers shyly, burying her face in the folds of my mini dress (a cute off-the-shoulder number with a Pucci-esque geometric print in bright, contrasting shades of orange and blue).

  “Well, how about that!” Brandee exclaims, clapping her hands together with an overabundance of glee. “Did you know that our Girl of the Year’s name is Gabriela?” She waves us over to the biggest of all the display cases in the center of the store, where there’s a big spotlight shining down on the doll inside it like she’s the freakin’ Hope Diamond.

  With a name like Gabriela, I was expecting the doll to be Latina, but she turns out to be African-American and she’s either a singer, a dancer, or a DJ because her accessories include a microphone, tap shoes, and headphones with a mixing table. “She’s cute. Do you like her?” I prompt Gabi who’s got her nose and hands pressed against the display case. I bet Brandee and her co-workers spend a lot of time Windexing off all the fingerprints
on that glass.

  “Mmmmm,” she chews her bottom lip thoughtfully for a few seconds before determining, “not really.”

  Bending down, I murmur, “Good call. You wouldn’t want to be seen with a doll who wears jeggings. Bad for your rep,” then I shudder with disgust, which makes Gabi giggle.

  “What about a Truly Me doll?” a not-easily-deterred Brandee suggests, leading us over to the wall on the far side of the store, where there’s an extra-large display case housing row after row of dolls. Although they have different skin, hair, and eye colors, they’re all outfitted in the exact same dress, which makes them look like members of a creepy doll cult.

  Gabi crinkles her nose like she just smelled a dirty diaper, which she probably did since a lady just walked past us pushing a stroller that had a distinctive odor of Eau de Poop wafting off of it. “No, thanks. I want a princess doll,” she declares.

  “Well then I have just the American Girl for you. Right this way.” Brandee hustles us over to yet another display, filled with a quintet of dolls identified as “Wellie Wishers.” She takes down the one outfitted from head to toe in pink and gold and says, “Gabriela, meet Ashlyn,” then gently places the doll in Gabi’s outstretched hands.

  “She has a crown!” my niece squeals.

  “Technically, I think that’s a tiara, but either way, she’s definitely royalty and she’s got a great sense of style. I am totally digging the glitter.” I gesture at the doll’s footwear, which is an oddly adorable hybrid of pink rain boots and gold Mary Janes. “She looks just like you, too, Gabs.” She really does. With her long, brown hair, big, dark eyes, cappuccino-colored skin, and the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose, Ashlyn is a miniature, plasticized replica of my niece.

  “I love her soooooo much.” Wrapping her arms around the doll, Gabi squeezes her so hard I’m surprised Ashlyn’s fake eyeballs don’t pop out of their sockets.

  Turning to our salesgirl, I say, “Sold. Thanks for hooking us—” Hello? What do we have here? Standing about fifteen feet behind Brandee is a smokin’ hot guy in a perfectly-fitted blue-gray business suit. That suit tells me two things: One, he’s got a job and it pays very well because that’s an expensive Italian-cut suit (cost him $1400 easy). Two, judging by the way that wool-linen blend is hugging his form from broad shoulders to muscular thighs, the man has a rockin’ bod, one that requires closer examination by yours truly. While I’m at it, I need to see if he’s wearing a wedding ring. The chances of a single guy being in a place like American Girl are probably as slim as the carrot sticks my model friends call a “meal,” but I don’t want to rule this hunk out before I get all of his stats.